


he has hands like the apocalypse

by ultraviolence



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Daddy Kink, F/M, Fem!Hux, Foreplay, Weapons Kink, horrible people loving each other, the logical conclusion to my sins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-27 00:00:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10797504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultraviolence/pseuds/ultraviolence
Summary: She smiled, lovely and lethal. His fingers brushed her hair.“No one will touch us. And certainly, no one will kill you but me.”Also known as: Hux and Krennic, two Imperial defectors on the run, building a criminal underworld together. AU.





	he has hands like the apocalypse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Woehubbub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woehubbub/gifts).



> This one is for Woe, my Hux in our totally serious RP, from that one ridic idea we once discussed via DM. You know which one. Happy birthday, love.
> 
> Plausible [soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kzQTc0-iBX8) for this drabble/ship.

_"You could start a war with hands like that." -[Kiki Nicole](http://advancedweaponry.co.vu/search/he+has+hands+like+the+apocalypse)_

 

“Not a shabby job today, dealing with Black Sun.”

Hux remarked as she entered the back room, the slightest hint of a purr in her voice. She was dressed in red, in contrast with her usual hue of blacks and greys—the colour of a job well done, of dominance and enthrallment and the gushing veins of their enemies—and the dress not simply hugged her figure but caressed it, although she never had much of those supposedly feminine curves in the first place. She was a creature of jagged edges and raw pain, silver, glittering knife, and her love was a blaster shot in the heart. 

She was even thinner now than she was when they left the Empire, but her hair was still the same red, deeper and richer than her dress. Neither her dress nor the maintenance of her hair had been cheap, but her partner spared no expenses for her.

“They didn’t know who they were dealing with.”

Blue eyes returned her gaze from the partial darkness of the room, the owner of the voice seated behind his desk, legs propped up, a cigarette tucked on a corner of his downturned lips. Hux smiled, catlike, moving smoothly closer, and he smirked at her, watching her approach. The man behind the desk was dressed neither as a smuggler or a crime lord, but something of both and outside it, an outsider turning the system inside out and changing the game. His clear blue eyes were cold, calculating, although there was fire underneath it—fire that Hux knew all too well—and every bit of it screams Imperial, Imperial, _Imperial_.

Orson Krennic had been one of the finest minds the Empire had working for them, a man proficient with both machine and men, and his defection had been a sudden blow to the Imperial war machine.

Sometimes, in the depth of the night, when he’s asleep and one of his arms were curled around her, on their old, worn out thing they called a bed, Hux liked to pretend—for a mere breath—that he’d defected _for_ her.

She stopped just short of him, only to inhale the scent of him, corruption and decadence and cigarette smoke, and watched him watching her. His blaster—still his old DT-29, one of the relic he’d kept from their Empire days, with a few wear and tear now—rested on the desk beside his leg, and she took her time to slowly lift it, sitting on the table, their legs slightly touching. He turned his head slightly to look at her.

“I did what I needed to do,” she told him, fingers caressing his blaster, his eyes tracking her every move. She grinned in the partial dark, lightly, like death, like triumph. Like carnage and slaughter and screams ripping through the air. “They think we’re amateurs. After today they will think twice.”

He listened to her, expression impassive but rapt, gaze intense on her. She cocked the blaster, feeling the weapon’s mechanism click in place and its heft. She felt the urge to put the muzzle in her mouth, tasting the cold feel of it.

“I killed them all except for one. That should serve as warning enough.” Her voice was soft in the incomplete dark, as light as the brush of a dream, the tip of a vibroblade. He took a long drag and let the smoke fly, shifting his leg slightly.

“And what if they sent more people after us?”

“I will kill them all too,” she was raised to be a weapon, and so Hux did what she did best. It was a wonderful coincidence that she ended up with the ex-Director of the Empire’s Advanced Weapons Research Division. She pushed his legs down and, in one sudden but likely predictable move, climbed to his lap. His lips was on hers, rough, and she could feel his length pressed on her thigh. She brought his blaster pistol up, muzzle pressed against his temple.

She smiled, lovely and lethal. His fingers brushed her hair. 

“No one will touch us. And certainly, no one will kill you but me.”

“Charming, Hux,” he says, his smile equally savage, matched hers in ferocity. She let her finger pulled the trigger back just a smudge, just enough to imagine _red_ and _brains_ and _the moment of contact_. “What would I do without you?”

“What would _Daddy_ do without _me_?” She echoed, pulling the blaster back. He took it from her hand, in a gesture one might consider gentle. _Almost_. “I don’t know. Maybe you’ll rot and die, still a part of that cog machine. Your dick will almost certainly rot away,” she chuckled, catching his hand, turning the blaster so the shooting end faced her. She brought it gently to her own temple. “You’re going to need my help, Daddy.”

She closed her eyes then, smiling, again imagining _red_ and _brains_ and _the moment of contact_ , muzzle against temple, a second away from destruction. Hux thrives on destruction. She was almost disappointed when he lowered the blaster and pulled her in for a bruising kiss, long and rough and passionate, and somewhere underneath it, she imagined tenderness like a hidden gun, pressed against her heart.

This is her idea of tenderness: slow destruction. This is his idea of tenderness: rough kisses in the partial dark, his mouth hot against her lips and neck and collarbone. She let out something akin to a sigh.

“You are my weapon, Hux. My trump card,” he told her, lips trailing kisses on her skin, tongue and teeth marking it.

“Do you mean it?” She told him, gasped it in between the kisses like a heathen’s prayer, her fingers going down to his thigh, to his length pressing against her.

“I do,” he responded, and she knows it to be true.

Nothing could stand against them in the past, and nothing will, in the future. She was his ultimate weapon, and he never shies away from pulling the trigger.

In the partial dark, in between his kisses and her touches, she knows they could rule the galaxy together.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, as always, comments/suggestions welcome! hmu @ tumblr: orsonkraennic.


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